Page 17 of Bathed in Blood

No more brothers left to threaten him. No more Jax, Vince, and Anton.

No more fucking Jax.

If I’m lucky, which I’m not…

No more Blood Princess.

I almost cry at the incredulousness of that thought, as if I’d have been worth taking for any other reason. A strange sob like sound leaves my throat, and I’m not sure if it’s out of relief or fear. When it dissolves into manic laughter, I can’t tell if it’sbecause the totality of bullshit is kind of fucking hilarious, or if I’ve finally lost my goddamn mind. I’m laugh-sobbing so hard, my belly aches, my ass burning and throbbing, replaying Jax’s whimpering over and over until the sound of someone clearing their throat stops me abruptly.

My eyes widen on the salt and peppered face in front of me, just now noticing I’d forgotten to close to the glass door, the puddled water on the floor reflecting the stern and entirely unamused man’s face.

“Glad you’re feeling well, Blood Princess. We need to talk.” His voice bleeds authority. Maybe that’s what freezes me in place, the sudden unknown after years with the brothers. I’d learned to expect the cruelty, could anticipate it a mile out. The same faces every day, staff who were never to interact with me. The brothers… as much as I hated them, Iknewthem.

He sighs, and I do my best not to cower—I fail—as he stalks over to me, wrenching me from the shower floor. Even after years spent with every sensitive part of me exposed for viewing, I’d forgotten what it feels like to be truly naked. My feet can’t get traction as I try to fight his hold.

Stop fighting, Lana.

God, I can’t. Panic jolts my heart into hyper-drive as I claw at his arm. When his hold on my slippery arm isn’t good enough, he trades it for my hair. We’re halfway out of the too large bathroom when I manage to twist in his grasp, kicking his knee from the side. He grunts, cursing, and I hit the ground.Hard. My hands fumble on the counter, finally grasping a heavy, decorative thing I can’t even identify the purpose of. I lift it, my arms shaking. For a moment, I’m calm.

I’m her.

I can see what I want to do. I know how to do it. Maximum carnage. But the people I kill are rarely untethered, and even at his age, he’s fast.

Faster than me.

I’ve been shot in the head.

There is a bullet currently lodged somewhere very important in my skull. It’s the only logical reason for the stabbing pain currently obliterating my every thought. There are also… hands, roaming, prodding, and pushing, though willing my eyes to open does very little to make that happen.

A sharp prick, a burning sensation in the crease of my arm, makes me jerk slightly before that too sends the bullet racketing around inside my skull. Have you ever seen the bizarre things a human does when their brain becomes compromised? I once drilled into a man’s skull Dahmer style. After I spent a moment or two poking and pinching, his cock inflated like a life raft, coming over and over until he sobbed and vomited, the appendage a choked shade of purple and blue.

It was one of my best steams. Jax was thrilled. Even I was a little fascinated by it all.

When warmth spreads from my chest to my belly, it rushes forward, making my already muddy thoughts slower. Slowly, I breathe easier, the pain subsiding bit by agonizing bit. Now, there are voices with the hands. I can’t make out their words, nor can I tell if the voices only just showed up, or they’ve been here the entire time. Rubbing alcohol assaults my nose as some kind of bandage is pasted to my arm. I want to kiss whoever created the drug I was just given. It’s oddly enough the loveliest I’ve felt in years. I was never allowed downers, only coke when I wasn’t energetic enough for their liking.

There’s a loud commotion. Despite the new unbothered state of being, it makes me flinch. My hands fist the thin blanket I’m covered by as the angry, loud voices turn to a struggle just outside of wherever I am.

A man screams, but it's cut short. I’m confident I could open my eyes now, run a triathlon even, albeit slowly, but I don’t. The door somewhere close bangs open. “Where the fuck is she?”

Another scuffle, more grunts. Now, I’m holding my breath.

Christian asks the same question, at top volume, but the words are darker, more menacing than anything I’ve heard from him before. He’s closer now, maybe even in front of the room.

“Sir should we lock—"

“No.”

A shudder breaks out over my skin at the gravelly voice. Glimpses of me being pulled out of the shower by my hair makes panic ratchet in my chest, threatening to obliterate my high. Not a bullet, a fist. A heavy one. I’ve been punched before. God, I can’t recall it ever hurting that bad.

The door to the room slams open, and I can feel him the moment he enters. His rage. It shouldn’t comfort me—God knows it shouldn’t comfort me—but it’s better than the severe salt and pepper man sitting nearby.

The monster you know.

“You had no fucking—”

“Enough son.”

Son. Son?

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